“That’s settled then.” Coroticus lifted his crutch and used it to get to his feet. “I’ll have Narina arrange it. If you have any new stories or songs for us Bel, they’d be most welcome. Right, time for my walk around the fortress. I’ll take a piece of that buttered bread for your raven on the summit Bel, and I will see you both later on, at the feast.”
“Not me, lord,” the captain replied, a look of regret on his large face. “I’m on guard duty tonight. I’ll come in for a song or two, but I’ll need to be at my post. Can’t have the men slacking off when we’re at war with so many of our neighbours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous man,” the king said. “Drest and Loarn mac Eirc and that lot are all gone. No one would attempt to take Dun Breatann in the depths of winter, it would be madness. No, I insist you join us tonight. Have someone else take your place on the walls – the men can do without you for one evening.”
Without waiting for a reply Coroticus shuffled off, out the door towards the stairs that led outside where he would take his daily exercise. Climbing the hundreds of stairs all around the giant rock Dun Breatann was situated upon was exactly the sort of thing needed to strengthen his injured leg.
Bellicus and Gavo watched him go and then, when he was out of sight, the captain shook his head and blew out a long breath, clearly unhappy.
“What’s wrong?” the druid asked. “You’ve been given the night off to drink and make merry with your friends. Anyone else would be happy.”
Gavo shook his head, and Bellicus saw the lines on his face too were more deeply ingrained than they had been before Catia’s abduction.
“The king seems to forget we are at war. Whether the Picts or the Dalriadans are miles away in their own lands, an army needs discipline or, when the time comes to fight, orders aren’t carried out and battles are lost. He’d never have allowed me to miss my turn on the watch a year ago.” He waited on the serving girl to clear the table and move out of earshot before leaning in close and muttering, “I fear where we’re heading, Bel. When you returned with the princess, I hoped Coroticus would go back to the way he used to be. Give up his warlike streak, make amends with the likes of Drest but…”
“His whole being was rocked to the core, Gavo,” the druid said softly. “And from what you’ve told me about Loarn mac Eirc – what the sick bastard said about Catia…I don’t think Coroticus will ever let that rest. There will be no peace between Alt Clota and Dalriada while Loarn is king there. So, for now…” He leaned back on the stool and rested his hands on his thighs. “We follow orders, as we always do. Coroticus is our liege lord and, although we should continue to advise him if we think he is making a mistake, we must do as he commands.” Getting to his feet he smiled down at the fretting guardsman. “You have a feast to look forward to, man, straighten your face. We’ve all had worse commands to obey in the past!”
With that he rose to his feet, shaved head almost brushing the ceiling, and clapped Gavo on the shoulder reassuringly. “I’m away to find Duro – we have a song to perfect if we’re going to play it tonight at the feast. Try not to worry. Things will sort themselves out, they always do.”
With a last grin at the guard captain Bellicus strode from the room but, as he climbed the stairs to the house he shared with Duro the smile fell from his face and was replaced with a frown just as deep as Gavo’s had been.
* * *
Apparently, Coroticus had forgotten his earlier promise to only have a small feast, for, when Bellicus and Duro made their way into the hall between the fortress’s twin peaks they found the place packed. Despite the freezing rain that made the many stairs slick and seemed to seep right into one’s very bones, about twenty of the local folk had accepted the invitations Narina had sent out to them mere hours before.
The druid was a little surprised – and although he wouldn’t admit it, put out – that the feast had begun so early, without his presence. In earlier times Bellicus would have been the master of ceremonies at a gathering such as this within the fortress. Now, he suspected the king cared little for such traditions – Coroticus had started the celebration early so he could begin drinking as soon as possible. It was a vice the king had never really been prone to before, but it had taken hold of him during Catia’s absence, as happened to so many people, and was now a habit that would prove difficult, if not impossible, to curtail.
“Well, they seem happy enough,” Duro said, not quite understanding the druid’s unhappy expression when they walked into the packed room.
“Of course they are. They’re getting a free feast aren’t they? It’s the dozens, nay, hundreds of families living nearby that haven’t been invited that I worry about. They’ll hear about this and…ah, well, there’s nothing I can do about it now, me and Gavo can only offer advice. The king will do as he pleases.”
They took their seats at the high table, Bellicus in his accustomed place to the right hand of Coroticus who appeared already merry, face flushed, beads of sweat on his forehead for, despite the chill outside, the hall was warm. The druid nodded a greeting to the king and sat down, blinking to clear his eyes from the smoke that was a by-product of the banked hearth and cooking fires and Duro took a place beside his giant friend.
Gavo waved to them from the other end of the hall, for he had a seat nearer the door. By rights he, as captain of the guards, should also have enjoyed a place at the high table, but, since the Saxon’s attack on Dun Buic that led to the abduction of Princess Catia, he’d taken to sitting by the entrance, ready to meet any threat to the king as soon as it appeared. Of course, there was no chance of a hostile force sneaking inside the fortress of Dun Breatann without an alarm being raised, but the guard captain insisted on his position and Coroticus had simply shrugged and gone along with it.
Queen Narina was seated to the king’s left, but Bellicus was careful not to attract her attention other than to nod a polite greeting. Catia was nowhere to be seen – presumably she’d been tucked up safely in bed with two or three soldiers guarding her chamber door. Senecio sat to the queen’s left, a smug look on his face.
Or perhaps that was just Bel’s imagination.
A group of musicians were performing a tune, and some of the guests danced in the centre of the room. Two trenchers laden with roast beef and freshly baked bread were brought for the two newcomers by a serving girl who also carried a jug of beer which she used to fill their mugs before hurrying away into the smoky gloom again.
“The common folk of Alt Clota might frown on their king’s habit of wasting valuable resources on lavish, unnecessary feasts,” Duro chuckled, tearing off a chunk of beef and washing it down with a long pull from his mug, “but I’m not complaining. This is the way to live, eh?”
“Aye, perhaps,” Bellicus agreed half-heartedly, and then a wicked smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “But I wouldn’t eat or drink too much, my friend. We’ve to perform your new song in a little while and I don’t want nerves getting the better of you. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a musician throwing up before a performance when he realises how many people are there to see it.”
The centurion waved the druid’s warning away, but a worried look came over his face that only deepened when Bellicus barked an unsympathetic laugh and crammed a chunk of bread into his mouth. From that point on, Duro took half his friend’s advice, eating only a little of his bread and meat, but downing more beer than he normally would, presumably to give himself courage to face the audience who were, like him, growing steadily more inebriated.
“You know the words?”
“Aye, like the back of my own hand,” Duro nodded, raising his voice to answer Bellicus’s question as the noise inside the hall had grown steadily louder, as was always the way during a feast.
“And you remember we only play that section once? The second time around we go into the new, faster part, right?”
“Don’t worry,” the centurion said, watching as the queen strode around to the front of the table and gestured
for Coroticus to join her in a dance. “I know the song. I won’t make any mistakes.” The king spread his hands incredulously and tapped his crutch. How was he supposed to dance with an injured leg? “Just you make sure you don’t mess it up, Bel, because I’m not a good enough flute player to mask any mistakes.”
On the floor, Narina shook her head playfully and turned away, finding a partner – Bellicus recognised him as an elderly cobbler – amongst the people already dancing, and the musicians played even louder. As he looked on, the druid sensed someone watching him and he glanced sidelong to see the king glaring at him.
Apparently even watching Narina dance was enough to irritate Coroticus these days. The druid turned back to Duro and asked the centurion some vague, inane question, feeling the king’s drunken stare boring into him the whole time.
Dun Breatann certainly wasn’t the welcoming home it had once been. Bellicus wondered if it ever would be again. He could only guess that Coroticus was feeling jealous because he’d heard the rumours about Catia’s parentage and, if that was indeed the case, it would only be a matter of time before things came to a head.
Perhaps it would be better if Bellicus and Duro headed back down south, perhaps join up with Arthur and Merlin again for a time, in their fight against Hengist and his hordes…He couldn’t stop another surreptitious glance at Coroticus but this time the king was watching the dancers, eyes glazed, staring straight ahead in the almost unseeing way someone who’s drunk too much tends to do. Leaving Dun Breatann would feel like a wrench – this was Bellicus’s home, and the people here were his people. He owed them a duty as their druid. And what about Catia, his daughter?
That idea brought him back to reality, hard, and a shiver ran down his neck. He could not think of the girl as being his own flesh and blood, there was no future for any of them in that direction.
It would be easier if Coroticus was a bad father to her – maybe then Bellicus could feel justified in wanting to play a part in her life, but the truth was, the king doted on her and she loved him dearly in return.
With a start, Bellicus realised the beer and the cosy warmth from the blazing hearth nearby had lulled him into a waking dream, where he barely knew what was going on around him, and he stretched back on his seat, taking a deep breath to bring himself back to reality.
He could never be a father to Catia, and the longer he was about Dun Breatann the more chance there was Coroticus would turn against him. He had to leave.
“What are you thinking about, Bel?”
To his shock, Narina had come up behind him and leaned down so their faces were next to one another. It took all his druid training to stop himself from turning to look at Coroticus.
He said, “Duro has written a song for us to perform. You should take your seat by the king again, my lady. Now.” His voice was powerful, commanding despite being low enough that only Narina could hear him. She appeared to understand his look, the unspoken message in his request, and she nodded regally before stepping back towards her chair.
Duro peered along at Narina, who was on the receiving end of some irritable questioning from her husband, and then he met the gaze of the druid.
“What in the name of Mithras is going on?” he demanded in a low hiss. “Is the atmosphere in Dun Breatann always as tense? It feels like the fortress might erupt in civil war at any moment. How do you stand it?”
The musicians’ playing came to a stop and Bellicus, eagerly grasping the opportunity to escape the high table, got to his feet and, lifting the old Roman lute from where he’d left it against the wall, beckoned the centurion to follow him. They approached the players and the druid held out a hand to the flute player.
“May I? The centurion has a song we’d like to perform for the hall and your instrument has a much nicer tone than the one he’s been practising on.”
The man, somewhat flustered at being addressed by the famous druid, quickly handed over the flute and half bowed, awkwardly, as if unsure how to behave. Bellicus, preoccupied, didn’t attempt to put the musician at ease, and Duro took the flute from him. At a gesture from the druid two of the musicians gave up their stools and, soon enough, the hall looked on in expectant near-silence. Only the murmurs of one or two guests, too drunk to take in what was happening, could be heard as druid and centurion picked the strings of their instruments, checking the tuning, making fine adjustments with the pegs until both were happy with the sound.
“It’s your song,” Bellicus said quietly to his companion. “Would you like to introduce it or…?”
Duro glanced around the room and the anxiety on his face was plain for all to see. He might have been a soldier of Rome – an officer, a centurion – but the thought of addressing the audience of Britons staring expectantly at him plainly terrified him. The druid took pity on his friend.
“Duro wrote this song to honour the memory of his beloved wife, who was murdered by the same Saxon vermin that stole our own Princess Catia.” He let his words sink in for a moment, knowing the watching crowd would forgive them almost any mistake in their performance of the music after an introduction as powerful as that.
“What’s it called?”
Bellicus peered into the shadows irritably, barely able to see the dark features of the questioner. His annoyance was directed at himself as much as the shadowy Alt Clotan, for he realised now they’d never properly settled on a title for this song. Duro had been against calling it ‘The Song of the Centurion’, and the problem of a name had been forgotten by both of them. Until now.
Again, one look at Duro told Bellicus this was no time for a discussion and so he said the first thing that came into his head.
“This is ‘Alatucca’s Song’.”
And he began to play.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Seventy miles to the east, in Dunadd Hillfort, King Loarn mac Eirc of Dalriada sat with his bishop and advisor, Dotha. Portly, and in his early sixties, the bishop remained straight-backed and clear-eyed, with a golden headband on his bald head and wooden cross around his neck. He was a Christian now, but, like Loarn mac Eirc, had once been a pagan.
It was colder here than in Dun Breatann and snow swirled about the peak of the high fortress but in his hall the king’s servants had a fire going in the hearth, and the scent of roasting meat lent the atmosphere a cosy, homely feel that Loarn always revelled in. Still, every time the door opened a flurry of snow would be swept in by the swirling, freezing air, and he would rearrange his long, grey hair around his neck to stop the draught. Indeed, that was one reason he wore it in such a style, despite being completely bald on top.
“Are you sure this is wise, my lord?” Dotha said, in a tone of voice that suggested he thought Loarn’s plans were anything but. “These people are not like us. They’re not even as trustworthy as the Britons. They follow harsh, vengeful gods, and think nothing of breaking oaths if it means they gain from it.”
“Don’t we all?” Loarn shrugged, gesturing for a serving girl to bring him a mug of warmed ale. “It doesn’t matter whether we can trust them or not. Just that they join with us until our task is completed. So write this down, bishop, and pray to Christ and His angels that my plan is a success.”
In truth, Loarn had never really harboured any great hatred of Coroticus or the people of Alt Clota. He had been quite content to gain more lands simply by assimilating with the Britons already living near the eastern coast, with the occasional skirmish to put down any towns or villages which resisted the Dalriadan newcomers. Even when he’d made the crude remark about the missing child princess, it had simply been a ploy to enrage the Damnonii king, to try and draw him out from behind the walls of Dun Breatann. Although even Drest and Cunneda his comment found unpalatable, there had been no real malice behind the words.
That had changed, however, when Coroticus had tried to murder him on the road in a cowardly ambush. At that point, Loarn knew he must destroy the people of Alt Clota if the Dalriadans were to continue their growth westwards.
> And so he had decided to send a messenger south, to the opposite coast, where he knew he might find allies. Where he would find men in a similar position to the Dalriadans, coming from across the sea to settle here, in the lands of the Britons.
The Saxons.
Although he had never even met one of the so-called ‘sea wolves’, Loarn had heard all about them. And he knew they would jump at the chance to win territory as rich as that belonging to the Alt Clotans.
He began to dictate the letter to Hengist, offering an alliance, and promising he would allow the Saxons to keep the lands west of Dun Breatann, while Loarn would take the ancient fortress on the rock and everything to the east. Of course, from such a position of strength, the Dalriadans could then destroy the Saxons and take control of the entire north-western side of the country.
“Drest won’t like this,” Dotha warned, but Loarn merely smiled for this was exactly what he’d meant earlier when the bishop had talked of breaking oaths. He had sworn an oath to help Drest and Cunneda take Dun Breatann when the next spring came, and he was certain the kings of the Picts and Votadini would see his proposed alliance with the Saxons as a breaking of such an oath.
But was it really? He had simply sworn to help take Dun Breatann – if the Saxons joined them, aye, it would mean complications in splitting things between them all, but that would sort itself out. The main thing was to smash the heathen Coroticus and take over his lands, which were much richer than any others north of the Roman walls.
Did Dotha truly believe either Drest or Cunneda would hold to their oaths if an opportunity arose to break it and, in the process, gain from it? No, the bishop was a shrewd man – he had started training to become a druid at one point after all. He knew how things worked.
They completed the letter and Loarn smiled.
“You’re sure they will understand the language?”
“Latin, my lord? I doubt the Saxon warlords will be able to read it. They probably can’t even read their own vulgar letters. But they will have someone, a Christian slave no doubt, captured from one of the churches on the east coast, who will be able to read this, and write a reply.”
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